


Standards

by unfoldingbliss



Category: Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-02 00:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16775569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfoldingbliss/pseuds/unfoldingbliss
Summary: Lysandre liked the way Sycamore wrote. [Lysande/Sycamore]





	Standards

**Author's Note:**

> Old drabble that I never posted on here. If you remember it from tumblr, haha... you've known me for TOO long.

Lysandre liked the way Sycamore wrote.

An odd thing to fancy, he knew that much. When most listed appealing or attractive traits, penmanship was furthest from the mind. The face, the eyes, the hair, the smile…those attributes, while shallow, were some of the first features a lovestruck fool fawned over, throwing in the occasional ’ _she’s so funny_!’ or ’ _he’s so mature_!’ to downplay their obvious lust.

And, well, Lysandre had noticed that too. He wasn’t blind. And as someone who appreciated beauty in all aspects, he'd be foolish to deny Professor Sycamore’s physical appeal. Smoldering, mischievous gray eyes, ready to brighten at any sign of progress on his many research projects; silky, blue-black locks that caught well in both day and moonlight; a smile that could capture the hardest of hearts, their spirits lifting at the simplest of compliments rolling off his tongue…

But, it wasn’t that kind of beauty that pulled him in, at least not for long. He’d seen countless men and women, beautiful and charming, squander their potential through vanity and apathy, believing they could coast by with a flutter of the eyes or the faint brushing of shoulders. No; his standards were higher than the average man’s - men that couldn’t comprehend the enticing, raw beauty of this planet, wasting their lives and resources on a pretty penny and a pretty girl.

The standards of his respect (the standards of his _affection_ ) relied on how one carried themselves, presented their many facets to the world. And he believed there was no better way to understand and know a person than through their writing - through their words.

Sycamore’s penmanship was sloppy and quick, with much more pressure applied to the paper than required. He would write on anything and everything when an idea zipped across his eyes, ranging from a napkin to a coffee table to his very own forearm. Any current discussion continued, as though he wasn’t making some big breakthrough at the dead of night, walking down a dim-lit road with a man he’d known for less than a month. And while his eyes glazed in delight, begging anyone to ask about his fascinating new research tactic, he'd never stray from the topic at-hand unless another inquired (and Lysandre did. Frequently).

It was through these observations, watching Sycamore's face twist in attentive genius, that Lysandre better understood the professor he had respected from afar. His love for his research, while strong (the very _reason_ for his existence, really), was on par with his love for his many friends. And, in such a startlingly short amount of time, that came to include Lysandre.

Professor Sycamore was passionate and engaging, a bright beam of sunlight ready to soak up the next big adventure in front of him. He was a man of constant motion, of a lithe body and a hearty laugh. Of calloused fingers and unguarded trust.

And it was through these observations that Lysandre decided: if he were to ever fall in love - if he were to ever become that lovestruck fool sighing in the corner of some hokey cafe - he wouldn’t mind Sycamore.

Not in the least.


End file.
